‘You’ve lucked out though – Dad’s done all right for yer. Place looks reet nice. So yeah I’ll call yer as soon as I’ve heard back and let you know when he’ll be expecting yer and all that, all right, love? You take care now.’

I called her back immediately but the ship was already fully at sea by then and all signal had been lost. I walked a lonely, uncertain circuit right around the top deck, chewing it over, trying to pick the bones out of what she’d had said. A ‘reet nice’ place but a ‘bit remote’. Where could it be? South America, like Bobby had said originally? Afghanistan? Australia?

I found the longer I walked, the less I wanted to leave. I wanted to stay on the ship, in the cabin, in my little bed. Sightseeing with Caro. Playing with Ty. This was the only home I had. The angry bubbles popped and fizzed in my stomach. Everything felt wrong – bowling shoes wrong. Point Break remake wrong. Bounty-in-the-God-Tier-of-Chocolate-wrong.

And you know what that means.

The only other person about on deck at that time was The Man Who Walks. He was leaning against the railings like I was, newspaper tucked under his arm. Wrong place, right time.

‘Hello,’ I said, leaning on the railings next to him.

‘Oh, good evening,’ he said, with a polite nod, and he attempted to step past me but I blocked him. He wore a lemon shirt with a glasses pocket, tucked into white trousers and his shoes were grey and neatly tied with bowed laces. Everything about him was clean and pressed and even. Including his face.

‘You were thinking about your wife, weren’t you?’

He frowned. ‘Sorry, do I know you?’

‘No. I heard you lost your wife, though. I lost someone too.’

‘Did you?’

‘A baby.’

‘Oh. I am so sorry,’ he said, relaxing his stance. I copped a glance at the paper – an English one, a few days out of date. ‘Was this recently?’ He didn’t seem to know where to look but at least he’d stopped trying to leave me.

‘Few weeks ago. I came on holiday to perk myself up. It’s scary and painful but we must go through it, mustn’t we? It’s OK to grieve.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to see your wife again?’ I asked.

‘Someday. I know I will. Does that seem silly?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Good.’

‘That day could come sooner than you think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘None of us know when we’re going to die. All you have is today.’

‘Wise words from someone so young.’ The newspaper relaxed in his grasp, fluttering on the sea breeze. ‘I’m John, by the way.’

‘Oh,’ I said, shaking his extended hand. ‘Hi, I’m Rhiannon.’